But oh! what a desolate cry arose in those children's hearts when the little coffin was closed, and the sweet, peaceful face was seen no more. Charley was in heaven—Charley was happy, but they wanted him, they wanted him.
It seemed so cruel that the world should go on gay as ever, and their Charley dead. They wondered, as they came on board the boat, which was to carry what was left of their darling back to New York, they wondered why every face was not tearful, when theirs was so full of sorrow.
They made a little grave for him in the beautiful Greenwood Cemetery. The soft moonlight sleeps lovingly upon it, and people tread lightly as they approach and read the name of "Lame Charley."
Slowly and sadly passed the rest of the summer, for the little mother told no more stories. Once she tried, for she could not bear to see the sad faces of her children; alas! that one vanished face, with its sweet, grateful smile, and little tender ways, came before her, and the story was lost in a flood of tears.
But late one lovely evening, as she was sitting by the open window, thinking of her loved and lost one, some friend, unseen beneath, sang these words, to a sweet and tender melody —
"Mildly, sweet summer moon,
Shine on this mother, weeping;
Whisper within her heart,
'He is not dead, but sleeping.'
"Softly, sweet summer stars,
Evermore vigil keeping,
Tell her, in steadfast tones,
'He is not dead, but sleeping.'
"Gently, sweet summer wind,
All things in perfume steeping;
Breathe in her sorrowing soul,
'He is not dead, but sleeping;
"'And safe in Jesus' arms,
His great reward is reaping.'
Up! mother, up! and cry,
'He is not dead, but sleeping.'"
A faint flush passed over the mother's pale cheek, for she knew that some one who loved her, had thus tenderly warned her that her grief was not endured as hopefully as it should be. She had not remembered that her beloved Charley was only "gone before, not lost."